A n y t h i n g
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: He'd do anything for Sherlock. Anything. Whatever Sherlock needs, as long as it isn't too dangerous, John will give it to him. Even if there isn't any sound reason behind it, like when Sherlock corners him the second they return home from a case.


**A/N: Just a scene that popped into my head. Pointless fluff.**

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><p>They stumble into the flat, panting, chuckling softly. They drop their coats near the hook and John leans against the wall near the door, turning to put his rear against it and drop his head backward. He's still catching his breath from their recent case wrap-up chase, and the adrenaline that accompanies it.<p>

Sherlock is standing with his hands braced on his knees as he catches his own breath, his first few buttons of his size-too-small shirt undone to let him breathe easier. He glances up at John, the doctor's eyes closed, and he suddenly can't tear his gaze away.

It might be the adrenaline. It might be something else. Nevertheless, Sherlock stands and huffs out his last breath, his heart not calming much, but his lungs feeling fine. He takes a step forward. "John."

John opens his eyes and lifts his head from the wall. "Yeah?" he says, barely a pant, and there's traces of a smile on the corners of his mouth.

"Stop me if you don't want this," Sherlock relays quickly and flatly, and he takes another step forward, and John blinks, confused.

"Don't want what?" and he hasn't the faintest idea; his mind is still rushing with their recent case and the thrills of nearly dying but making it out alive, and he can't put two and two together of anything. Not the unfamiliar glint in Sherlock's eyes, not the purposely schooled expression on Sherlock's angular face; none of it.

Sherlock presses a hand to the wall above John's shoulder. He leans in. He places his free hand, still gloved, at John's neck, thumb on his jaw. He leans in further, their noses brushing. "Stop me," Sherlock repeats, slower and lower this time, "If you don't want this."

John swallows, eyes searching Sherlock's pale face.

Then Sherlock's lips are on him, and John is at a loss at what to feel, save for the warmth and dry sliding of lips.

It hardly registers before Sherlock pulls away, mouth moving south. He kisses John's chin, jaw, neck; hungrily, tenderly. He moves his hand along John's neck and shoulder, stroking idly with his thumb. His hand on the wall slides downward in increments until it drops away completely and rests against John's hip.

John can't move. His body feels as rooted as a tree. He trembles like braches in a breeze. His eyes slide shut and he feels his breathing pick up again, head tilting back to how it was.

Sherlock carries on kissing hotly over John's clothes, down his collarbones and across his chest, his hands sliding downward and downward, leather moving easily over cloth.

John doesn't have it in him to protest. He doesn't think he even wants to. He isn't sure of anything, only that he hasn't felt another person touch him intimately like this in months. He aches for it, and somehow, he isn't disturbed in the slightest that it's being done by Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock stops at John's quivering navel and lifts his head. He captures John's mouth roughly, wetly, prying it open, hands scoring John's chest, worming their way under his shirt, gloves feeling strangely good.

"Sherlock, what made you… Why are you…?" and John can't seem to find the words, can't seem to properly voice his racing thoughts with the way Sherlock is seizing his mouth and barely giving John time to _breathe._ "It's the adrenaline, right? It's just… because of the case…"

"I don't know," Sherlock murmurs, and he continues mouthing along John's neck and touching where he can with his hands, fingers more curious than Alice in Wonderland. His gloves are shed and they continue to explore, and his mouth refuses to leave John for longer than a few seconds at a time.

"Must be… hard for you to admit," John huffs, attempting a bubble of laughter and failing. "That… you don't know something."

"But it's true," Sherlock answers simply. "I don't know why." He lifts his head and John's eyes peek open again, their gazes meeting directly. "I just know that I need this, from you, this instant. And you don't seem to mind."

"I don't," John says around a stifled moan. "Go as far as you need."

He'd do anything for Sherlock. _Anything_. And he'll give him whatever he wants, even if there is no sound reason for it. If Sherlock asks for it, and it isn't too dangerous, John will give it to him. Because he's _Sherlock, _and John trusts him. Cares about him. Supports him.

And that's all that matters, at the end of the day.


End file.
